Behaving and transcending

Oy. The guilt.

There was a recent no food/cold medicine/glass (okay, maybe two) of wine incident. We knew we shouldn't go to the party, as we were really sick. But we have these issues with morality and it seemed better to take the Sudafed and go to the wine tasting than to cancel on the nice people hosting it. We did not pick the best option and yes, I have fielded phone calls from folks laden with embarrassing recollections.

I learned, on the same day, at the doctor's office for said sickness, that I am infecting my family. He told me that I am a carrier of deep infection and that every time my husband and son get sick, it is all my fault. Actually, he said it twice, much more slowly the second time, to let the burden of this sink in. 

I believe that guilt is not from God. But I also believe in behaving. I don't know much about parenting, but from what I can tell from those around me, what I DO has a lot more power than what I SAY. This boy needs to see his mama loving unabashedly and seeking understanding. I had a dream today that I was in Nepal with super-smart Betsy and Rebecca (who I'm trying to woo into blogging with me). We were told we could not buy a rug we wanted unless we found a "transcendent guest house" (this was said to us by Sam Elliot in a Bhutanese goh...have I mentioned I'm on a lot of cold medicine?). We kept looking in guest houses and asking, "is this one transcendent?" Perhaps that will be my new message to myself as I make choices. Is what I'm doing trasnscendent? Rebecca often asks me to ask myself, "How is this helping right now?" It's a good barometer reading. When that second glass was poured, I might should've asked myself, "Now, just how is this helping? And specifically, how is it helping little Gus?" 

November is the month of gratitude. But for me, it may be the month of gratefully behaving. Starting tomorrow, I will floss twice daily, not eat so many salty pretzels, and be thankful for the folks that keep me on the straight and narrow. When Gus tells me that someone is a grouch (as he is prone to report--and with accuracy), I will not concur, I will instead ask questions that lead us to understand why someone might be grouchy. I will help us both transcend.

And I will stay home when medicated.

For your own transcendence, you might want to peek at this (how does a person pick which book is more amazing?). You could also read this, which is one of the sweetest little young adult novels I've read in a long, long time. Lastly, you could enjoy this:

Here's what matters about these leggy ladies. One of those girls finished a 50km running race lately. Two of them did a 60km adventure race a couple weeks ago in wicked-fast time. All of them are stellar and competitve athletes with enviable ab muscles. I don't know what they were thinking when they asked me to join their team, knowing I'm one kid and three years of training behind everyone. I couldn't do it. I was slow. I walked when I should have ran. I was winded and wincing and yet they committed themselves to doing every step of the race by my side. Even when one of the organizers swore at us and said, "Well, you're not dead--bleeping--last, but you're pretty-bleeping-close to it" as we came through a check point VERY late in the day, they kept laughing, holding my hand, and cheering me on. I asked one of the girls at the end, while gasping for breath, "Was it hard for you?" she looked up, pursed her lips and said, "Umm...I mean I kinda feel like I had a workout..." What she meant was, "Um, that was a fun little stroll through the woods with my grandma..."

I'm not even thinking about feeling guilty for their love (well...). Part of transcendence is accepting help. And being grateful. THANKS, ladies.

 

 

We Learn

We occasionally learn things around here.

We learn that carved pumpkins in the tropics have a shelf life of about 48 hours. Sorry, Gus!

We learn that sometimes you have to regress to go forward. And since we are in bleak creative times these days, we thought back to when time was endless and the juices were flowing. So, we decorated our study as if we were still in college:

We learn that the toddler will live, despite taking the cap off the Dimetapp Allergy medicine and helping himself to a swig.

We learn that after a six month hiatus, EVERY family member will heartily eat lentils again. And when all the other parents tell you to quit worrying and things change, they are RIGHT.

We learn that we are a family that needs naps and quiet and downtime. And that's probably why we haven't invited you over.

We learn that community takes many forms. It's a group of women waiting for Slow You on an adventure race they could have easily won. It's a neighbor letting you help with the weekend chauffeuring. It's nice friends of your husband talking books with you while you shape playdoh for a loud two-year-old at the kitchen table.

In this November month of thankfulness, we are grateful for our little learnings.

 

Taking sips

A friend reminded me a couple weeks ago about Teacup Theology. That's when you look at the cup of unknown tea you've been handed by your generous host and you decide if you're going to take a sip and savor it and let it do you the good you're intended or if you're going to dump it out and brew your own pot with your own leaves at your own strength. Okay, at it's essence, it's sort of pithy. I'm simple folk these days and needing simple truths; it's giving me pause. I've got a cup of tea that is brimming with tropical goodness: warm afternoons by the pool, long jungle runs, and blooming frangipani. This cup lets me work and travel and be a mama. This cup is filled with really great places and really great people. That's how I know I'm a little off kilter and that this too shall pass, as I'm sniffing the cup and dreaming of something with a bit more autumnal depth: spices and fall colors and hearty root vegetable soups. I'm ignoring that the second pot also comes with wintery burdens that even farmers' market pumpkins can't outweigh.

I've adjusted to an international move three times now, so I know that the awkward month comes. I'm in it. I'm missing the ladies in Prague that taught me to be a mother and loved my boy. I'm missing friends on other continents who used to be here. And I'm knowing that my sister is in her favorite season of all, marbling paper and knitting mittens and probably baking something outrageously good (of course, as I write this, she is hunkered down with extra gasoline and chocolate for what could be some scary days, thanks to nasty Sandy). October is the month for tea with neighbors, and I'm just not feeling it here.

I've been writing Neighbor B long emails and skyping with tough-as-nails LM. I've been making weepy lists of art projects that will just have to wait until holidays. I've been dreaming of learning this, and envying the talented gal that does this. When you're in the awkward month is seems that everyone and everything is being creative and productive and spinning all the plates in the most beautiful ways. And you're just a lady that hasn't even made time to get waxed. And that's a necessity when you're living a tropical cup of tea.

So. What do we do? We come home and take a nap. Because that's one of the perks of this tropical living. And we eat the best bowl of char siew soup anyone could hope for and marvel that our son is learning to use chopsticks. We laugh when he thanks us in Chinese and then clarifies, "That's Mandarin, mom". We read a lot of young adult novels, we dream of afternoons filled with drawing, and we take long walks amongst the mango and banana trees rather than the falling maple leaves. We're back from an island vacation and only four sleeps away from an adventure racing weekend with three outrageous ladies. It's okay. It's more than okay. It's just awkward October, and this too shall pass.

Usual awkward segue:

And because it really is okay, and I can't stay all that reflective for all that long, we're also relishing a delivery of a great tea chaser. Who says beer is expensive in Singapore? You just have to go to the source. And my source has Aventinus. 

And while the birthday girl that got this art doesn't partake in the Aventinus herself, she's another great reason to make it through the October melancholy. Living on the same island as Betsy for the second time is a dream come true. She keeps me laughing, thinking, reading, and drinking the occasional Pokka green tea. So happy to get to wish you a happy birthday in person this year, Betsy H.

Book club

Gus and I are taking a stab at literary criticism. We're loving it. I'm on a mock committee for a picture book award, and it's made for lively evenings at home. Each afternoon I lug home a stack of books, read them to Gus (three or four times minimum), and then let him select his favorite. I'm learning that he has soft spots for onomatopoeia, dinosaurs, and ice-cream cones. Authors and illustrators: take note.

My favorites usually incorporate quilts, woodcuts, and clever borders. Mooshka: A Quilt Story a is high on my list of favs (that Julie Paschkis is amazing) followed by Squid and Octopus: Friends for Always. I really love Extra Yarn for the gorgeous and clever illustrations and knitting related storyline, but I honestly was not smart enough for the ending. And Gus and I read it eight times.

These are our evenings: Small, wordy, artsy, and book-fueled. We're not complaining.

Help them, help them, help them

This weekend has been pretty horrible for many of our nearest and dearest. Our Skype line has been ringing, and our phones need charging. Things are rough. From my dear-hearts in Tunis to friends-that-are-family in the states, there are a lot of folks dealing with some of the worst that life has to throw at them. 

And then there's Gus. Gus, the great refiner, has a way of boiling life down to what is truly sacred. He's taken to spontaneous prayer these days, and while I'd like to say he learned it by example, I honestly think the kid just has it in him. He stops throughout the day and says, "I need to pray." The prayer is pretty simple: he's thankful for his friends, his relatives, and his household. They are hollered out in a list of names that end with an emphatic, "Amen!" This weekend, as I did my best to holler up my own lists of friends, it struck me how sincere that dude is. He really does love those folks that give him pause. He's truly thankful. He's in the midst of playing and he thinks on them and unabashedly shouts out his affection. I could learn a little bit from his joyful thanks and his frequent remembering.

So here's a shout out beloved Tunisian friends and dear Birch Bayers. I love you big, I'm thankful for you, I'm pleading for hope and happy answers to fill your days, and I'm offering up a "help them help them help them" in true Anne LaMott style on your behalfs whenever you cross my mind. And you cross my mind an awful lot. 

The spiritual leader not only supports prayer, but he also supports public fountain crashing.

Overdoing it

Sometimes, a lot of times, I overuse words. And I think the overused words of any given season are a sign of my mental state. Right now I have to work hard not to say, "billion", "tragic," and "spectacular". That's because I'm wired way high and everything feels big and out of proportion and BILLIONS of things are happening and some of them are SPECTACULAR and too many are also TRAGIC. But plenty of them are also mundane and dumb and truly no big deal. And maybe that's why it's been weeks since I was able to think about writing, or maybe it's because there's too much to write, or perhaps it's because the times-are-a-changin' and a new blog is brewing or new something is brewing or it's time to break up or whatever. 

So here's a few of the  random billion, spectacular and tragic things I know:

1. David Rakoff died this week. His writing and his voice impacted my life and made me laugh and think and want to grow as a writer. His passing is sad.

2. I've had 47 (billion) hilarious cultural encounters that remind me why I both adore Singapore and audibly groan so often. It's good. And tiring. Today, at 9:13am, I found myself in my bikini at the zoo shouting into my phone because the splash pad was 13 minutes late turning on. "Hello sir, I'm sorry to bother you, but the waterpark sign says it opens at 9:00, but it's not working." "What? You are working?" "No, sir, I'd like the splash pad to be working." "Who is working at the splash pad?" (17 more exchanges until my Singlish kicked in). "On the splash pad, can?" "Oh, sorry, ma'am! We'll send someone right over to on the splash pad."

3. Gus is fine. I go to work, and he's fine. Part of me would like to be a little more important and part of me is really relieved.

4. Our daily routines involve swimming pools, talking to the neighbor's cockatoo, chasing geckos, eating dried mango, and begging for more fried dumplings. Gus is friends with a dog named Cookie, devoted to a kindly uncle who manages the condo security office, smitten with his nanny, and entertained by about two dozen older kids in our condo. Singapore is grand when you are two.

5. I am fighting to keep my design brain churning. It's tough. My IQ has dropped pretty significantly since I last taught language arts, so I'm working right now to just make sure my students don't get any dumber. Once I master that, I'll think about art and writing and where I'm headed. For now, all I've produced is a Babushka fairy to grant me my every wish during this first week with a class full of kiddos:

6. I nearly alienated my family by being completely insane during my first two weeks of work. It was the first time I'd ever had a sniff of mother's guilt and woweeee! Powerful stuff! I drove Gus nuts with my list of (a billion) things to do when I came home every day. In a span of 90 minutes I'd have managed to drive us both to tears with alphabet time, number time, outdoor time, ball time, bike time, singing time, art time, etc. etc. etc. Yesterday I rushed home early to be with him and took note that as soon as he saw me he barricaded himself in his room and shouted through the closed door, "I'd just like a little time with my tractors!" Hm. When the two-year-old is able to articulate that you are smothering him, it's time to take stock. 

So. I'm missing my quiet Prague life and loving the buzz of Singapore. We're settling into our life of contrasts and working towards a balance that is neither spectacular nor tragic but is just right where we're supposed to be. We'll give that time and we'll heed Gus's wisdom to just slow down and relax and retreat to the things we love. 

Savoring 'til Tuesday

You know you're on the Green family ranch when you overhear your husband and his brother dreaming on future property purchases and they contemplate, "But can you legally drive a four-wheeler to mom and dad's house from there?" 

We are four-wheeling folks here. And fresh-picked apricot, cherry, and raspberry folks. Don't even talk to us about dessert. One day I ate Grandma Green's huckleberry cobbler for every meal. We are fruit-rich and savoring four more sleeps and our pick of three friends' swimming pools to beat the nearly 100 degree heat. Life is grand.

I don't think about the Tuesday morning fly-out. I think about Gus's sweet cousins (one just a week new) and the quail babies that have grown up since our arrival. I think about the mama deer at the top of the hill I hike every day, the Tour de France updates Grandpa gives me every morning, and the local Chardonnay in the refrigerator. This is a place where sitting and watching the mountain is mandatory and morning coffee on the deck can stretch into lunchtime (assuming the restless toddlers haven't hijacked the dog and gone lizard hunting by then).

(a typical morning on the job site)

(a farmboy, his dog, and both of their enormous feet)

It's understandable why being in four-wheeling range is so imporant.